


Requiem

by Gift_of_the_Dragons



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Complete, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Post Fullmetal Alchemist: Conqueror of Shamballa, Scene jumping, Spoilers for Adventure Time episode: Puhoy, Spoilers for Fullmetal Alchemist (2003), Spoilers for Fullmetal Alchemist: Conquerer of Shamballa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-11 17:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gift_of_the_Dragons/pseuds/Gift_of_the_Dragons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post CoS. "I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." – Maya Angelou</p>
            </blockquote>





	Requiem

Okay, I know, I'm terrible. Writing one-shots when I should be working. *laughs nervously* I can't help it. I'm struck by inspiration... for everything but what I want to work on. But I digress.

To make a long story short, this is based off an Adventure Time episode.

 

.

 

Lastly... I am a slacker; therefore, I am doomed.

 

.

 

For dana, who waited patiently for this, and Dulcie, who threatened to kiss me.

 

.

 

.

 

19.1.2014 - A quick edit; fixed some names, changed some words. Nothing significant.

 

.

 

.

 

**Disclaimers**

I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist, _Beethovenplatz_ , Requiem, _Casablanca_ , No Rain (by Blind Melon), _Beowulf_ , Grundtvig, or the plot. I'm not taking any chances here.

I do, however, own all OC's that appear.

**Warnings**

Rated T

Scene jumping

Ed x Alter!Winry

Spoilers for Fullmetal Alchemist (2003);

Spoilers for Conqueror of Shamballa;

Spoilers for the Adventure Time episode 'Puhoy';

Mentions of sex;

Multiple character deaths;

(If this was written correctly, then some) serious mindfuckery.

 

_._

 

_Requiem_

 

_"_ _I fear I am writing a requiem for myself." - Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart_

 

_._

 

Rain softly spattered across the pavement in a pantomime of shed blood, the pitter-patter of footsteps that darkened the grey concrete. In response, black and grey petals bloomed from the crowds, held high above their heads to shield them the heavenly tears, turning the masses into a sea of shifting and bumbling ink. The occasional brown or blond peeked through, collars turned high to avoid the spray that soared from cars as they ran by the curb, obnoxious engines forewarning the unnecessary additional shower.

The rain traced dribbling child's fingers against the cool glass of the window as Edward's warm breath fogged up his side of the mirror, gazing through the glare of the lamplight and the silvery rivers to the quiet city beyond. Golden eyes stared blankly as a young girl screeched, petticoat drenched from a passing coach. He watched as her partner removed his jacket and spread it across her shoulders, earning grateful – if mute – thanks.

"Brother?"

Edward reluctantly turned away from the city to see his younger brother watching him, grey eyes full of concern. One hand rested on his right shoulder – he hadn't felt it. He hadn't felt much with that shoulder, not since he had lost the attached prosthetic Winry given him due to a bout of malaria some years ago. Alphonse stared for several seconds, soul-searching eyes wavering as he spoke.

"What were you thinking of?"

It had rained on that night, hadn't it? Edward's gaze drifted back to the window; the streets were clear and the sky had darkened to a dismal doppelgänger of night. Up above, in the rain-heavy clouds, he could see flashes of lightning within the floating hills, bright white lights that flickered hesitantly before dying. There had been lightning, as well. Loud claps of thunder that had shook the house to its foundations as they raised demons from the depths of hell, heavenly applause that now reverberated in his ports with a persistent ache.

"Nothing, Al."

 

.

 

He looked skywards; the ceiling of the Earth was clear, pale, and free of clouds. Pure, even. A tug on his cuff brought his attention back down from the skies and a grin crept up on his face. It still hurt to look at her, and he wasn't sure this was best for either of them. But he was sure that he was healing, slowly, but surely. She was good for the soul, despite his ill-buried doubt regarding his own worth to her.

"Stop that," she commanded, voice low and loving yet stern. "There are other days for being sad. But not today, Edward. Please, not today."

The grin grew, and he pushed the grief deep away. It couldn't be removed, but the least he could do for her was hide it away. Leaning down, he kissed her, hearing the whoops and yells of the crowd nearby, but he ignored them. He only had eyes for her, but he could feel his brother's on him.

Watching.

Waiting.

Knowing.

 

.

 

Inside it was bright and cheery; but Edward would have preferred to sit outside, where it had begun raining again, where the sky had resumed grieving its losses. He felt the same, and would have greatly preferred to lament in private. Alphonse didn't believe it healthy for a person to be alone all day, however, so he had forcibly dragged his brother along to one of his favourite haunts, a café called _Beethovenplatz_ that purported live classical music, or when that was not available, through its numerous radios. The food looked good, but Edward wasn't in the mood to eat. He would much rather stare out the windows and watch the puddles gather rain.

With his chin in one hand – his only hand left, rather – he gazed outside, eyes glassy with thought. A finger pressed against his lip, an unnecessary gesture for silence that went ignored; he did not notice, lost as he was in his thoughts. A cello lamented throughout the room, the lone, haunting cry of Requiem a stark contrast to the light atmosphere.

Again, a hand came down on his shoulder and he flinched, guard non-existent. The hand jerked back and the owner cried in surprise, the voice heart-wrenchingly familiar. Edward turned, regretfully, and felt his heart sink, a dead weight in his chest. There she was, beneath the soft light. Flaxen hair shining, robin's egg eyes glowing, skin a soft tan, a lean body from handling her mechanics. But it wasn't her; her mouth was too small, eyes too wide, shoulders too weak. She rarely held such fear as she showed him now, and when she had, it was for fear for another's life. Not from a sudden reaction, for if it was _her_ , not her, then _she_ would grow angry and throw one of her tools at his head, and he would allow for her mark to land, as he always did.

Instead of the anger which he had desperately hoped for, she relaxed, and a small smile – the same as her mouth – appeared, and she garnered the courage to sit down next to him, pushing her hair over one shoulder. He offhandedly noticed it was the wrong shade, with not nearly enough vibrancy to be _her_. But he returned the smile, unwilling to be rude to her double, whose crime was not her own; it was his, for remembering and expecting _her_.

"Hi," she greeted, voice full of false bravado.

"Hey." He looked her over, less for her figure than for comparison. She was wearing an overcoat over a long, wine-red dress, small, iridescent orbs at her ears, and a golden chain hung around her neck. If he had to guess, she was waiting for her fiancé to come and pick her up. _She_ would rarely have adorned herself, having adamantly stated she preferred work clothes to social wear.

"I'm Whitney. Whitney Rockefeller."

Even their names were alike. She smiled at Edward again, but already his attention was waning. He wanted nothing to do with her, not when she reminded him so strongly of what he had given up. On the worst of days, he felt the loss had not been worth the cost. What hope had she, this look-alike, of understanding his pain?

The girl pouted in annoyance upon realizing she was being ignored. But she was stubborn, and would not accept defeat so easily. Even if she could not have him, she could draw him out of his shell. Whitney thought for a moment, thinking of how to best address the situation, eyes straying over the rest of the room for inspiration. She glimpsed a fair-headed man, laughing gaily with his friends, grey eyes betraying his worry as he looked over to the pair.

"You have a brother?" she asked, voice soft. He picked his head up, aureate eyes meeting cerulean. He had heard the undercurrent in her words.

"Yeah."

"I had a brother." _Had_. She nodded, almost sagely. "I don't see him very often anymore. But he's still there."

How unlikely, it was, that their brothers were the cause for what would come. Unaware that they were.

 

.

 

He knelt on the grass, carefully placing down the flowers; Whitney stood next to him, fresh tears falling down her face. Edward glanced at the stone as he stood, feeling another pain as he saw the words.

 

_Rae Rockbell_

_1 May,1895 – 1 July, 1916_

_Son, brother, father and commander_

_Gave his life for the greater good_

 

"If your brother was anything like the man I once knew," Edward muttered, staring at the inscription, "then he would have hated his gravestone." Whitney laughed, a pained, strangled sound that struggled in the heavy atmosphere. "It would've rained on his funeral. Useless bastard."

Edward shook his head, mirthful laughter catching on his lips. Whitney stared for a moment in confusion before disregarding it. Whatever it had been that made him so, they were his own demons. She was not privy to that side of him, yet. And she still had her own emotions to deal with.

.

"I had a brother," she said with a nod. "I don't see him very often anymore. But he's still there."

Edward cocked his head, curious, and asked, "He is? If he's so close, why don't you see him more? Don't you miss him?"

He knew he could be obtuse, oblivious, and emotionally blunt, but one of the few things that scared him was making the people he cared about cry. Knowing it was his fault, in some way or another, hurt him to his core, especially since he knew there was often nothing he could do to stop their tears. Seeing the wet sheen in her eyes made him think of _her_ and panic set in as he realized he had, yet again, been short-sighted to something he should have realized by then. But he was not given the chance to rectify the situation.

"He... He died," she answered, voice wavering at the end. "He fought in the war and was killed on the battlefield. They said he had died protecting his men." Whitney rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing the light makeup she had applied. "It's better now," she reassured, the hiccough in her voice betraying her.

What Edward also knew was that he was coarse, crude, brash and loud, and he could not socialize for shit. That was Al's speciality; always picking up after his mess of an older brother. But _she_ had been the exception to the rule, and Edward hoped that still applied to this girl.

"No it's not." Hesitantly, he placed a hand on her shoulder. "It doesn't get better. It only becomes bearable." He moved his hand from her shoulder to her face, brushing her tears away with his knuckles. "We just have to keep moving on."

She smiled at him, and his heart wrenched.

 

.

 

"Brother," Al warned, voice hard. "You shouldn't be doing this."

"What are you talking about?" Edward responded, leaning against the whitewashed wall, watching people mill around, drinking and cheering for the newlyweds.

" _This_ ," he hissed, waving one arm. "Leading an innocent person like this, when we – _you_ – have no right to do so. She may look like Winry, but she isn't!"

Edward pushed himself off the wall and stood ramrod straight, any hints of joking gone from his face. He looked Alphonse straight on, a foreign seriousness etched into every feature. The younger Elric stepped back, unnerved; he had not seen a feeling of that magnitude for years. Not since they had destroyed the Gate. The silence continued as the elder studied his brother.

"I'm trying to make her happy," Edward finally said, breaking the spell. "And she's decided that I make her happy. When I can't do that anymore, for her, then I'll do what's best." He lowered his head, bangs darkening his face, lending him a look far too sombre for a wonderful occasion. "I'm doing what's best for her," he repeated.

 

.

 

"Thanks," she whispered. Edward looked at her, confused. She didn't miss it and lightly smacked him on the arm. "Idiot," she chastised. "I was thanking you for not saying that."

"What?" Another smack.

"Sorry."

A short pause.

"Why would I apologize? I didn't do anything."

"Idiot."

Whitney rested her head against his shoulder, and much to his surprise, he wasn't inclined to move away. His hand moved from hers and rested around her shoulders, lightly pulling her closer, cheek resting atop wheat locks. She sighed in contention and the two of them stared out the rain-spattered window, listening to the cello's sharp wails.

 

.

 

It was warm, despite the blankets resting at their feet. One arm was thrown out, curled under and around her waist as she slept, body pressed against his, breathing even and deep. Her chest rose and fell with each breath, and he could feel the movements as he lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He was not thinking of _her_ , or _her_. Nor was he thinking of Amestris, or Germany. Not even Al, or Al, for that matter, crossed his mind. He thoughtlessly watched the muted moonlight dancing in the window, the subdued shafts of light sighing as they fell to the floor.

Illuminated by the moon, he could see their discarded clothing, thrown about the room: his night-coloured tuxedo, her snowy dress.

 

.

 

"We can't do this," Edward confessed, running his hand through his bangs. Whitney stood in front of him, arms crossed defiantly.

"Why not?" she demanded. "If this is about your arm, we've already talked about this, Edward." Her voice softened as she continued, "Frankly, I don't give a damn about something like that. I love you for who you are, not what you look like."

His golden eyes slipped to the side as he pulled on a blond lock: "It's not that."

"Then what is it?"

"I…" he trailed off, attempting to steel himself. "I'm not good enough for you. I'm not from here."

The Rockefeller girl blinked once. Suddenly, she burst into laughter, startling the Amestrian.

"That doesn't mean a thing! I don't care where you were born, you idiot."  
"You don't understand," he moaned. "I'm not from here. _Here_. Earth."

Through the fit of giggles, Whitney managed, "So you're some kind of visitor from space?"

"I don't know." Edward knew she wasn't taking him seriously. " _I'm not from here_."

Perhaps it was the pleading tone of his voice, as alien as the truth he was presenting. Or maybe it was the desperation she could see on his face, simultaneously striking and sobering. Whatever the case, the mirth died in her throat as she gazed upon him, realization dawning in her eyes.

"You're serious," she croaked. "You're serious."

Her arms fell to her sides and, through the lines of her skirt, he could see her legs shaking. Edward reached one hand out, to steady her, but she wildly shook her head and stepped back, her entire body shaking.

"I... I just need some time. Please."

Whitney ran away from him, tripping and sliding on the polished floors in her haste. The heavy doors clicked open and slammed shut, the sound booming through the hall before fading into the sound of Requiem.

 

.

 

_Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump._

Resting his head against her swollen stomach, Edward grinned as he felt more than heard the tiny heartbeat. His hand replaced his head as he met his wife's gaze, a manic grin crossing his features. He could still feel the measured beat beneath his fingers, the curve smooth against his skin. Edward kissed Whitney's forehead and curled up against her side, breathing in her sweet smell, nose buried in her hair, one arm holding her close.

 

.

 

Around him, the cello cried, harmonizing with his soul, which was crying in earnest. No tears fell, though; his face had been covered with a mask, a façade. He turned around and re-entered the café, taking his seat once more. Al saw him enter but left him alone, knowing the best time to press his brother and bring him back to reality. But first he had to be left alone, allowed to watch the rain that reminded him of home. Of the impossible dreams they once shared.

 

.

 

Head held low, hand gripping the seat of his chair, Edward stared at the floor, worry eating away at his insides. It had been hours since the screaming began, and while he was still no more help than the first time, he at least had the maturity not to run around, yelling in panic with Alphonse. Another cry ripped through the house and the blond flinched at the sound, drawing himself further in. He couldn't do anything to help her; he was as useless as the bastard.

 

.

 

Alphonse lifted up his textbook, a heavy tome with crisp pages, ink still bright and shiny from its recent printing. He gave it a moment's consideration; nodding with appreciation, he hefted the piece over his head and down onto his brother's. The blond spasmed as it landed and slid over the crown of his skull before glaring up at the younger, gingerly rubbing at his head, cusses and worse waiting to be thrown from his lips.

"You're an idiot."

Edward blinked, confused. The certainty with which Al had spoken had surprised him and he fumbled with his words.

"You did something stupid and now you're upset over it. So talk."

Edward pushed his hair back – it had come undone after he had fallen asleep – and slowly started, unsure of himself.

 

.

 

The scene seemed familiar, although he couldn't recall why. Déjà vu nagged at him as he looked into golden eyes, and he felt that he had been in the same position years ago. His memories were hazy, however, and the feeling passed. The young boy crept closer, one hand resting on the door knob, reluctant to come any farther. Edward smiled at him and pulled his reading glasses off, resting them on the book he had been studying, and opened his lone arm, scooping the child up as he ran over and balanced him on one knee.

"Hey, Rae," he said, mussing up the boy's hair, grinning at the annoyed cries the action elicited. "Did Mom send you to get me?"

"No." He shook his head for emphasis.

"Is there something wrong?" The grin morphed into a scowl. "If those kids are messing with you again, I swear I'll–"

"No!" he giggled, still young enough to do so and get away with it. "I want to help you work." Edward laughed and moved Rae to his other knee, freeing up his arm and, more importantly, his hand.

"Alright, then. I'm looking for a book called _Beowulf_. It's a thick book, about this high," he held his fingers apart for emphasis, "and has the name Grundtvig on it."

Eager, the young boy slid off his father's lap and ran to the nearest bookshelf, scouring the titles. He came running back a moment later, asking how to spell _Beowulf_ and Grundtvig, earning another hearty laugh from his father. Unnoticed, Whitney stood in the doorway, arm wrapped around her stomach as she silently cried. Nevah clutched the folds of her skirt, watching her mother and her brother, too young to understand.

 

.

 

He threw his head back and groaned, rubbing his face with his hands. Edward wasn't paying attention to his brother's obvious distress, instead staring down at his lap. Al lowered his hands and inspected his brother, his mind tired and heavy. He wasn't sure if it was Edward himself, or if his exhaustion was playing tricks on him, but Edward looked far older than his twenty-two years; he looked to be someone twice his age, with all the weight of the world resting on his shoulders.

The young man bit his lip, unsure of himself. Admittedly, Edward did seem more at rest around Whitney, but it wasn't fair to her to have led her on as he did. Nor was it fair to him, as Ed hadn't mentioned talking to Whitney about their pasts to him, not even to inform him. Now the girl was avoiding Edward, who had taken to sulking around the house like a lost puppy. Truly, her reaction was to be expected; to her, he must have seemed insane, and therefore dangerous. But he couldn't tell his brother this, not when he was already depressed. He had no wish to lose his remaining family.

"I don't know what to tell you, Brother," Al finally said. "You might want to give her time to think things over and decide what she's going to do."

Edward perked up, suddenly hopeful: "So you're not upset at me?"

"Oh, I am." A toothy smirk took root on Al's face. "You're cooking dinner for the next two months."

 

.

 

By that time, it had become difficult to stand. His leg had long been neglected, the internal mechanics rusty and aged, pushed beyond their limits. It was with great reluctance that he had accepted the cane, but without it, he was incapable of walking. Whitney still stood by him, a steadying hand on the crook of his arm and a warm presence by his side. Alphonse had long since packed up and moved off, searching for himself his own life. It had been several months since they had last heard from each other, but with the war, it was to be expected. Edward could only hope that his younger brother had not been drafted, wherever he was now.

Both their children had grown, Rae and Nevah, and had headed off to college to further their educations after much unsubtle prodding on the subject by their father. It would have grated on his nerves to know that they weren't chasing their dreams, and to do that, he insisted that they needed to _know_. Whatever it was they needed to know, he hadn't specified, but shunted them off regardless. Whitney recalled the one-sided arguments – they couldn't truly be called arguments if Edward didn't respond – that Rae had with his father about what exactly he wanted them to learn.

That he and his sister were more than prepared to be taught.

 

.

 

It was Whitney who spoke first, her voice more than enough to draw Edward away from his medical journal. She was nervously wringing her hands, clothed in white satin, creasing the soft material. Her eyes couldn't stay still, shifting anxiously between him and the wall to the window behind him before starting over again.

"I'm sorry I acted the way I did." She unnecessarily smoothed her brown dress out and played with a frayed thread hanging off her sleeve as she continued. "I was hasty, and I didn't take the time to consider how you would have felt. I'm sorry." Whitney bowed, a foreign movement that confused the blond. If anything, _he_ should have apologized to _her_.

"No, _I'm_ the one that should be sorry," he stated, standing up, journal forgotten. "I had sprung that on you without warning. I should have expected no less from a mistake such as that."

Internally, he grimaced; had he been six years younger, his stubborn pride would have instigated a yelling match between them, rather than allow him to apologize for his mistakes. He brushed such thoughts aside, standing up from his seat and directing the blond to her own. She blushed at his courtesy, but allowed him to play the part of the gentleman.

All had been forgiven.

 

.

 

All three jumped slightly as the person beneath the mound of blankets groaned and turned over, upsetting the pile. Rae bent over to catch the fallen blankets and wrung them between his nervous hands. Nevah made to stand, to do _something_ , anything useful, unwilling to glance at her mother. Whitney had claimed the stool nearest the bed and was currently holding her hands together, speaking under her breath. It sounded to be a prayer, and that surprised her children; they had never heard their parents speak of religion, beyond their father's occasional proclamation that he would never believe in a heaven, but knew for certain there was a hell. As they had grown older, they had wondered what he had meant, but had never questioned him for its meaning. It had been another mystery about the enigma that was their father.

They were beginning to regret that choice, as it seemed they had lost their chance to ask. They wouldn't know many things about their father now. Nevah glanced at the clock and pulled back the layers of blankets on the bed before excusing herself from the room. Running one hand through his dark locks – a trait he realized he had picked up from his father – Rae stood still and studied the man.

Age had finally caught up with him, and while it was never spoken of, grief had as well. Uncle Al had died a half score years ago and his father had been mourning his death in his own way: studying extensively, despite his clearly failing eyesight and health, deep into the night and into the early rosy hours of dawn. Rae's heart clenched as the inevitable stuck him once more and he ached as he took another selfish moment from the dying man.

"Father," he whispered, shaking said person's shoulder. "Father, wake up." His mother faltered in her words, but continued on as though nothing had happened. "Please, wake up."

Reluctantly, tired eyes opened and struggling breath quickened. Edward turned his head to see his son more clearly, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. One hand pulled itself free of the sheets, grasping for the glasses that Rae shamefully, yet eagerly, shoved forward for him. He struggled for a moment with the arms, fingers not nearly as dexterous as they had once been, and squinted at his son, recognizing him at last.

"What d'you want?" he asked gruffly. Rae smiled; his father had always been coarse around the edges, and it heartened him slightly to see that he had not lost that touch even while on death's door. Nevah chose then to make her reappearance, holding a lunch tray in her hands.

"I wanted to ask you some questions," the raven answered, watching his sister in the corner of one eye.

 

.

 

Edward propped himself up against the pillows, attempting to make himself more comfortable before the questioning began. Settling himself, he looked up to his son and nodded.

"Well, uh," he began. Edward shook his head; he wanted answers, but he had no questions to ask!

"Is this the best time to be asking this of your father?" Whitney interrupted, lifting her gaze from the floor.

"I..." Rae hesitated again, will faltering. Now that he had the chance, he didn't know what it was he should do.

"Better now than never," Edward sighed. He could _feel_ it coming. They didn't have much time left.

"Why, Father, is there hell but no heaven?" Nevah asked, both for her brother's benefit and her own curiosity. Edward hummed as he thought over the question, closing his eyes as half-forgotten memories, spotted, blotchy, and misted with age, returned to the forefront of his mind.

"Because I've seen it." The answer brought pause to the three listeners, and even Whitney dropped her hands to her sides. "I've seen it enough to be certain that it exists."

"Edward," his wife sighed.

"You've seen it?" Rae whispered.

"I have." He closed his eyes and sighed, feeling his body weakening. "I call it the Gate."

 

.

 

"Father?"

"FATHER!"

"Don't go, please!"

"Rae, Nevah..."

"NO!"

"It's time. Let him go peacefully."

"Father..."

"Please... Don't leave us..."

"Don't forget us, you idiot."

 

.

 

Behind him, their wails echoed, eliciting winces and regrets, tugging on his heartstrings as he heard the unadulterated grief in their cries. It was almost enough to make him turn back, but that was no longer an option. All that he could do was face forward and march on, towards the end. Around him, the goldenrod atmosphere rippled as he passed through, steps heavy and dragging not from reluctance but from weariness.

Up ahead, the Gate loomed, onyx marble dully shining in the ethereal glow that lingered on the edges of his vision; the shape now reminded him of the Oriental torii he had seen on a business trip to Japan, though those were made of wood and cinnabar. The one before him was far older than any that existed in that world, perhaps going as far back as the creation of everything. He stopped before the doors, bracing himself for the assault as they slowly opened.

Within was the black expanse, as he expected, but the lavender eyes of the Gate Children were missing. Instead, he glimpsed a silhouette against the darkness, one that cleared itself as they moved out of the shadows. Edward supposed he should have felt shock or surprise, but instead, there was only relief.

"Come on, Brother. They're waiting for you."

 

.

 

His first instinct was to sneeze. The dusty stones silently laughed at his distress as he tried to hold back the instinctive reaction, scrunching his face in a futile attempt. As was wont, he lost, and the force knocked his forehead into the cold masonry beneath him. Groaning, he rubbed at his head and sat up, mind fuzzy and struggling to recall what had occurred.

Nothing came to mind, but as he looked around him, he realized that he was beneath Central, in the ruins of Xerxes. Something twitched next to him and Edward looked down, far too tired to flinch. A grin crossed his face as he saw Alphonse, though it was disheartened slightly as he realized the boy was far younger than he should have been. An image of an older Alphonse tugged at his vision – one that lay dead, his traitorous mind supplied – and he pushed it away. Sluggishly, Edward forced himself to his feet and stumbled over to where he had thrown his shirt and jackets, which he used to cover his younger brother.

Lying back down by his brother, Edward grinned again as he closed his eyes, giving way to a much needed sleep. They had won, finally; Alphonse had his body back, despite the fact that he was the wrong age; he was still here, with his brother; and no one else had died for them, this time.

He couldn't help but feel that there was something important he was forgetting though; the feeling nagged at him as he fell into the dark embrace of sleep.

 

.

 

Looking outside, he watched as the first spring showers slowly came to life, beginning with a few sprinkling drops that grew into a heavy downpour, roaring in the ears of every man, woman and child unfortunate enough to be lingering outside as the storm raged on, uncaring for the lives it disrupted. People pulled out their umbrellas and shielded themselves from the heavy driving rain. Between the upturned collars and dark folds of parasols, he could hardly glimpse the faces of passerby, who dodged the high-riding drizzle that the cars shot out from beneath their tires.

Edward's breath fogged up the glass as he stared outside. Noticing the white cloud, he idly traced patterns in it, attention drawn back outside. Even in terrible weather, the big cities never stopped moving. Street lamps came to life, burning yellow and orange on the crowds below, and Edward, realizing what he had done, rubbed out his drawing. It was a familiar array, one he had no desire to remember.

"Edward?"

Said blond reluctantly turned in his seat, locking with cerulean. In gloved hands, she held an automail arm – one that he vaguely recalled her gushing over – that was to be installed into his recently-repaired shoulder port in the following days. Tucking the piece under one arm, Winry stepped up behind him, a hand resting on his still sensitive shoulder. She peered out into the mist before looking again at the alchemist.

"What were you thinking about?"

It occurred to him, then, that the situation seemed familiar, so he looked outside; the streets were still crowded, but the usual sounds of a busy city were muted by wood and glass. Storm clouds roiled in the sky, loosing their dark colours as they deposited their burdens on the city below. There had been rain then, hadn't there? His ports ached in agreement as lightning flashed above, a growl of thunder following the streak of shining fury.

"Nothing, Winry."

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

_"_ _Don't forget us, you idiot."_

 

.

 

.

 

.


End file.
